Chapter 4
Nuala
The sun setting inevitably brought out the darkness. And by that, I mean the men flooding into the club. It has gone from dead to crazy busy, and I’m rushed off my feet. I glance at the clock, and it only says half past four. Usually, I would’ve been gone by now, having clocked off at two o’clock.
I wipe a sticky ring of beer from the mahogany counter. My feet throb inside my cheap black pumps.
“Two whiskeys. Doubles.”
The voice is rough. I look up. A thick-necked man in a gray suit taps a crisp fifty impatiently on the wood. He looks at my chest, not my face.
“Coming right up,” I say. My tone is sharp.
I grab the bottle of Jameson. The liquid splashes into the heavy glass tumblers. I don’t measure. I pour until the level looks right.
He slides the note across the wet surface. “Keep the change.”
I stare at it for a minute and then snatch it, politely, of course, from his hand. Now this is what I’m talking about. “Thanks.”
He winks. I look away and roll my eyes.
“Nuala!” Stacey shouts from the end of the bar. “Table six needs clearing.”
I grind my teeth. I put the bill into the till and pocket the change before I snatch a plastic tray. The man has paused, staring at the entrance, before he moves back to his table.
Laughter erupts, harsh and loud as I weave through the bodies. Shoulders bump mine. Hands brush my hips. I keep my elbows out. I keep my head up.
At table six, empty glasses clutter the surface. I stack them onto the tray. The glass feels cold and slick with condensation against my fingers.
“Watch it,” a man growls as I turn, nearly colliding with him.
I grip the tray tighter. “Watch yourself,” I snap back before I can stop myself.
He glares. I don’t wait for a reaction. I push past him and head for the service area. My arms shake under the weight.
I dump the tray and turn to Stacey. “I need to go to the toilet.”
“Now?” she asks, looking flustered.
“Right now,” I say, flooding my tone with urgency that is false. I don’t need a pee, I need a break.
Stacey rolls her eyes but waves a hand, clearly annoyed, but she can’t stop me. I shove through the heavy swing doors, letting them slap shut behind me.
I head to the ladies’ room with my feet screaming in protest. Cheap shoes are a torture device, I swear to God. I slide my hand into my pocket, fingers brushing the crisp edges of the notes and coins that fill my apron.
Heating. That’s what this feels like. Actual warmth in the flat. And food. Glorious food.
I push open the door to the ladies’ room.
One cubicle door is shut, but the other is mercifully free.
I slip inside, lower the toilet lid, sit down, and kick my shoes off for a minute.
My feet practically groan in relief, and I know putting them back on is going to be unpleasant.
I count to sixty, knowing I can’t linger, and then shove my shoes back on with a grimace.
Can I forego food or heating to buy a more expensive pair of shoes if I’m going to be rushed off my feet on my new shift?
Maybe after a week, it won’t be an issue.
“Keep going, girl. You’ve got this,” I mutter as I push the cubicle door open and wash my hands. The other door is still shut and silent.
“You okay in there?” We don’t get many women, but the odd handful make an appearance.
Nothing.
“I don’t mean to intrude. Just checking you’re okay.”
Still nothing.
I move a bit closer and tap lightly, feeling rude, but something feels off. The door isn’t locked, and it swings open a bit but then hits something and bounces back.
“I’m opening the door,” I say, loudly, my spidey senses going off the charts.
I shove the door open and slap my hand to my mouth to stifle my scream.
Seated on the toilet lid is the woman who rushed back into the function room to get her notebook.
Dead.
Strangled by the looks of it.
“Holy motherfucker,” I squeak, backing away. What do I do? What do I do?
Call the Garda.
Call the fucking Garda.
I grab my phone from my apron pocket as a loud crash echoes down the corridor outside the toilets.
A woman’s scream follows—Stacey—and I freeze, my heart thundering in my ears.
I’ve seen enough movies to know the sounds of machine gun fire when I hear it.
I think.
But in Ireland, where guns are heavily regulated, I have to be mistaken.
Right?
Another burst of noise tears through the club. Glass shatters. Shouts erupt from the main bar, and more gunfire. This time, singular shots.
I drop the phone. It hits the tiles with a crack. I scramble to retrieve it, but my fingers fumble the slick plastic.
“Jesus,” I hiss.
I look at the woman. Her eyes bulge. Her skin looks gray under the fluorescent lights. She sits there, dead, while hell breaks loose ten feet away.
I scramble behind the door in case someone bursts in, aiming a gun at me, but it goes quiet.
Too quiet. I slump down the wall, drawing my knees up to my chin. I’m trapped in the women’s toilets with a dead woman while the bar area gets shot to shit.
How?
Why?
Why me?
Tears prick my eyes as the shakes start. Lisa was supposed to work this shift, and she quit. That’s why I’m here.
Fucking Lisa.
Fucking me for being perpetually broke and seeing euro signs instead of going about my typical day.
I fall apart for all of about two seconds before I pull myself together.
“Come on, girl. You’ve been through worse shit than this.” Have I? Okay, no, but still… pep talk. “Get up and get out.”
I nod as if someone else is saying this to me. “Get up and get out.”
I force my legs to straighten. My knees knock together, and I grip the porcelain sink to steady myself. The silence from the hallway is worse than the noise. I check the cracked screen of my phone. No signal. Of course not. I shove it back into my apron.
I look around for a weapon. My eyes land on the toilet brush holder. Plastic. Useless.
The dead woman sits there, almost as an omen.
I turn away. I need to leave. I need to get out the back exit before whoever shot up the bar comes in here to finish the job.
I inch toward the door. My hand hovers over the handle. I grip it. My palm is slick. I pull the door open an inch.
The corridor is empty.
Silence hangs heavy in the air, broken only by a low groan from the main bar.
I step out, hearing my cheap plastic shoes creak. I freeze, my heart pounding. But no one comes.
I creep toward the double doors leading to the bar.
I peek through the porthole window.
Christ.
The place is a wreck. Tables overturned. Shattered glass covers the floor. Bodies strewn all over the place. A man lies face down on the bar, blood pooling around his head. Stacey is nowhere in sight.
I push the door open, just a crack. I need the back exit.
A hand clamps over my mouth.
I thrash, kicking backward. My heel connects with a shin.
“Jesus, woman,” a deep voice growls in my ear.
The grip shifts, spinning me around. I look up.
The O’Neill from earlier looms over me. He looks furious. His blue eyes burn into mine.
“You’re alive,” he says. It’s not a question. His gaze sweeps over me, checking for injuries.
“Let go of me,” I hiss, though I don’t pull away. My heart hammers against my ribs.
“We’re leaving,” he says. “Now.”
He drags me toward the kitchen door. He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t explain. He just moves, hauling me along with him past the destruction.
“Wait, my bag! I need my bag. My keys!”
He curses in Irish and glares down at me. He is at least a foot taller than I am. “Your fucking bag can wait.”
“No,” I say, suddenly frantic. “You don’t understand.
It’s got everything in it. My money…” I stop, knowing this is irrational.
They say to leave your belongings behind.
But I’m a broke-ass bitch, and I won’t let this make me even worse off than I already am.
I might only have twenty euros in my purse in change, but I fucking need it.
Suddenly, it’s the most important thing in the world.
“My landlord will charge me if I lose my keys,” I whisper, going cold. I rub my arm mechanically as he hisses.
“You’re going into shock. Where is it?”
“Stacey’s office,” I stammer, pointing a shaking finger toward the peeling door behind the bar. “On a hook.”
He doesn’t hesitate. He keeps a tight grip on my upper arm and pulls me forward. We step over a guy in a black suit who stares at the ceiling with unseeing eyes. Dark blood spreads across the wood floor near his head. I look away and focus on O’Neill’s broad back.
“Use me as a shield,” he orders.
What?
I stumble along next to him, jogging to keep up with his enormous strides. We reach the office. It’s messy but doesn’t have bullet holes.
“Which one?” he barks.
I point a shaking finger at my canvas tote.
He snatches it off the hook, along with my coat.
Irrational relief floods through me, enough for my knees to buckle.
O’Neill catches me before I hit the worn carpet. His hands feel hard against my waist.
“I’ve got you,” he says, his voice rough. “We are moving. Now.”
He shoves the canvas tote into my chest. I clutch it like a shield. He doesn’t give me a second to find my feet. He hauls me along, his fingers digging into the flesh of my arm through my white shirt.
I stumble. My feet slide on something wet near the threshold. I look down. Red smears across the floor. My stomach flips. I gag, but nothing comes up.
He doesn’t slow down. He pushes me through the kitchen. It’s empty. The stainless steel counters gleam under the harsh strip lights, contrasting with the chaos just a few feet away. A pot boils on the stove, steam rising in a steady column. The chef is dead. The kitchen porters are dead.
Am I the only one who survived? “S-Stacey,” I croak.
“Dead.” He kicks the rear fire door open. The night air hits my face. It cuts through the heat of the kitchen.
“Car,” he mutters.
He drags me across the tarmac. The alley is dark, lined with overflowing bins. His grip on my arm is bruising, but I don’t complain. The silence behind us is worse than the noise of the gunfire.
We reach a black sports car parked in the shadows. It looks out of place next to the dumpster.
He hits the fob, and the lights flash. “Get in.”
I scramble into the low passenger seat. The leather feels cold against my legs, but his presence beside me radiates heat.
The car is built for speed, not space. His thigh is inches from mine, his hand on the gear shift close enough that when he moves, his knuckles brush my knee.
The contact should be accidental. Somehow, I don't think it is.
The engine roars to life with an aggressive growl.
I look at him. His profile is hard. Stone.
I blink, and reality crashes back in. “Let me out,” I say, reaching for the door handle.
He slams the locks shut with the push of a button, and my stomach lurches.
“You did this,” I whisper, cursing myself to hell and back for getting in a car with a mass murderer.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he says, his voice completely calm, like I didn’t just suggest he gunned down fifty people in cold blood. “I got stuck in rush hour on my way back. I should’ve been in there too.”
The tires screech against the tarmac as he spins the wheel. I grab the dashboard to stop myself from smashing my face against the glovebox. The car shoots forward, pressing me into the seat.
“Let me out!” I scream. I yank the handle again. It doesn’t budge.
“Sit still,” he commands. His voice is even. Too even.
“You’re abducting me,” I shout. Panic rises in my throat. “I need the Garda. I need to go home.”
“Going home gets you killed,” he says. He shifts gears. The engine roars louder. We weave through the back streets, putting distance between us and the slaughterhouse.
I stare at him. His profile is sharp against the passing streetlights.
“You knew,” I accuse him. “You were there this afternoon. You came back.”
He glances at the side mirror. “I don’t know jack. You, on the other hand, Nuala, are the only survivor in a club full of massacred Dublin mafia. Care to explain?”
I gape at him. “You’re blaming me!” I squeak. “How fucking dare you!”
“Give me another lead, and maybe I’ll believe you.”
“So, you are abducting me? You think I did this?”
He keeps his eyes on the road. The speedometer climbs. He goes through a red, and I grip the door handle as if my life depends on it.
“I think you’re a loose end,” he says. “And until I know which end, you stay with me.”
“I’m a waitress!” I shout. My voice cracks. I hate that it cracks. “I serve drinks. I clean tables. I don’t massacre people.”
He drifts around a corner. My shoulder slams into the door. Pain shoots down my arm.
“I was in the bathroom! That’s why I… l-lived.”
“Why were you in the bathroom?” he asks. Calm. Detached. Like we are discussing the weather and not mass murder.
“My feet hurt. These shoes are cheap. I needed a minute.”
“Convenient timing.” He glances at me. The dash lights cast shadows across his face. He looks terrifying. “Everyone else is dead, Nuala. Just you left standing. That looks suspicious to people like me.”
“People like you are psychotic,” I spit out.
I clutch my bag tighter to my chest. The ham sandwiches squash against my ribs, and something crunches against my tits.
“Where are you taking me?”
“Somewhere safe.”
“Safe for who? You or me?”
He doesn’t answer. He shifts gears and tears onto the highway. The city lights blur as my eyes fill with tears. I am trapped in a speeding metal box with a man who thinks I’m a killer, or at the very least, is in cahoots with whoever did this.
And the worst part is, I’m worried about squashing my dinner.